


Turn me on (I'm a radio).

by orange_crushed



Series: Today, your barista 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:17:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Great job, champ. Real nice. Second date, and you're out. Not a personal best- it took Allison Regan fifteen minutes to throw a drink in his face at prom- but still pretty terrible. It was probably that thing he said about Hank Williams and coyotes and yodeling, after Cas said he appreciated the classics of country western music. Dean resists the urge to beat his own head in against the steering wheel. He's a stupid dick who can't keep his mouth shut for five seconds. He is the president-for-life of the Dean Winchester's A Fuckface Club.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn me on (I'm a radio).

Their second date is kind of like their first one: Cas says he's quote-unquote got no agenda, and he's fine just hanging out and grabbing some food and rambling with no real destination in mind. It suits Dean fine. More than fine. So Dean is sort of surprised when, after a tray full of chili dogs and tater tots and an hour or so motoring around in the Impala, talking about rock records and some of the people they both know, Cas sighs and yawns twice and rubs the back of his neck and says maybe he ought to call it a night after all. He asks Dean to drop him back off at the store. Dean says _sure, no problem_ and turns left at the next light, driving stiffly, and inside he thinks: _ruined it_. Great job, champ. Real nice. Second date, and you're out. Not a personal best- it took Allison Regan fifteen minutes to throw a drink in his face at prom- but still pretty terrible. It was probably that thing he said about Hank Williams and coyotes and yodeling, after Cas said he appreciated the classics of country western music. Dean resists the urge to beat his own head in against the steering wheel. He's a stupid dick who can't keep his mouth shut for five seconds. He is the president-for-life of the Dean Winchester's A Fuckface Club. Dean is so absorbed in plotting his own ritual suicide that he barely registers sliding into a spot in front of the coffee shop, or putting the car in park. He keeps his hands on the wheel and stares straight ahead while Cas says something about a Jeep and parking and tomorrow and stuff and things and-

"Are you listening?" says Cas. Dean's head jerks to the side. Cas is looking at him narrowly, his eyes thin and unflinching. "Did you get any of that?"

"Uh," says Dean. "Tomorrow." Cas's face brightens.

"Good," he says. "I should be done at six."

"Done?" Dean blurts. His hands drop off the steering wheel and onto his lap. "Um, like-" he stops, because he has no fucking clue what the rest of that sentence might even resemble. Cas's expression is still for a moment- paused, like stuff's connecting itself together in there- and then the ghost of a smile goes across his face. It's a nice smile, if a little wary. Like he's waiting for a sign.

"Only if you want to do this again," he says, and Dean's brain races him to the finish line for once.

"Fuck _yes_ ," he says, in a rush. Cas laughs out loud, and then actually scoots across the bench seat like an eager Labrador and puts his hands into Dean's shirt to tug him closer. It's gentle but not hesitant- his hands feel strong, secure- and Dean's body is three thousand percent on board with it. Dean's lips part against Cas's and he has about a split-second to sigh another enthusiastic _yesss_ before Cas's tongue slides out and licks a lush stripe against the inside of his mouth. It's the biggest surprise yet. Dean thought it'd be tentative, self-conscious, for longer than- what, five days total, counting that first awkward day with the sign? He was ready to take his time, he was ready for however many goodnight handshakes Cas wanted to give him. He was ready for a lot of things but he wasn't ready for Cas's mouth to press a hot, wet line insistently against his jaw. Dean groans and almost impales himself on the gear shift trying to haul his leg over Cas's, and gets bitten on the bottom lip for his trouble. It's the filthiest, best kiss of Dean's life so far, and it goes on for almost three minutes. When they finally split up, Dean's got a bruise forming somewhere on his thigh- he can feel it- and Cas's hair is a wreck, and Dean doesn't even need to look down to know he's got the beginnings of a really superior erection going on. It does Dean's heart good to see that Cas looks as windswept and startled as Dean feels. And then Cas inches away from him, patting down his clothes, smiling like a cat that just totally fucked up a canary's whole worldview, and opens the passenger door. Dean nods at him instead of talking, because he no longer trusts which part of him controls the thought-to-speech processors of his brain. 

"See you, Dean," he says. 

"Yup," says Dean, sounding like a fucking dork. Smooth, Winchester. Cas shuts the door and walks away, jingling a set of keys, and disappears down the alleyway between the coffee shop and the laundromat. Dean watches him go, and then sits in the car for a long time, looking down the street and up into the sky. It's after sunset, dropping rapidly into darkness, reddish-purple at the edges and deep indigo at the crown. There are a couple of stars already out, and a high, thin stripe of clouds. It's a gorgeous night. Dean drives home slow with the window open just a touch, cold air whistling in across his ear, and the radio cranked up. He sings along and thankfully nobody's there to hear him fuck up the high notes. _Tomorrow_ , he keeps thinking. Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow.

Awesome.

 

 

When tomorrow rolls around, Dean's out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn, whistling to himself and slamming the kitchen cupboards, looking for pancake mix. He finds granola, granola, and organic sweetener, and finally a box of Frosted Mini-Wheats. He eats just the frosting off half a dozen of them before he gives up and eats the rest. And then he turns the radio up and dances in the kitchen to that Kenny Loggins song from _Caddyshack_ until Sam stomps downstairs and literally unplugs the stereo. 

"Other people live here too, Dean," Sam explains, slowly, like a disgruntled kindergarten teacher trying to reach a problem student. Dean glances around.

"What people?"

" _Me_ ," Sam hisses.

"You're not people," says Dean. This starts a nine-minute argument about who is and isn't people, while Sam angrily eats two bowls of cereal and a banana. Dean argues that Sam is a mutant, and Sam argues that Dean is a jackass. "I think we're both right," Dean tells him. "Don't you have class?" Sam swears and runs upstairs to the shower, and Dean plugs the stereo back in just in time to catch the end of _Roundabout._

Work goes by pretty fast, considering. Dean started at Singer's in the back garage, just another grease monkey in cheap overalls, but that was years ago. Now Bobby's got him in the air-conditioned front office a few days a week, and Dean doesn't mind that at all, even though dealing with customers is a lot more frustrating than dealing with their busted cars. But Bobby isn't stupid: he's got other guys that can rotate tires and fix radiators. Dean can do all that, too, but he also knows how to work a spreadsheet and manage the insurance paperwork and charm irritable clients and suppliers. On his worst day, Dean could sell a drowning man an extra bucket of seawater, and Bobby knows it. Hell, Bobby was the one who told him to nut up and learn the fucking software already, because he was sure Dean could handle it, even after all Dean's jokes about being the stupid brother. So now Dean gets a swivel chair and a jar of pens and those business cards. He answers the phone and argues with a distributor for a while, then works a reduced contract out of him, just to pass the time. At five twenty-three he's out of the chair and clocking out, yelling to Bobby about having some shit to do. Bobby throws a rag at him and heads into his own office, and that's that. Dean drums his thumbs on the steering wheel as he drives and thinks about Cas's solid hands, the feel of them twisted in his shirt, and flushes down to his neck. Easy, tiger.

Cas is waiting out front again, though he doesn't get in the car like Dean expects. 

"Come on," he says. "Park. I'll drive." Dean puts the Impala in a better spot and turns her off, reluctantly. While he gets out he gives dirty looks to all the people passing by, like they'd better think twice about touching his fucking car if they know what's good for them, and so on. Cas stands watching on the sidewalk with a funny look on his face, as if he already knows how full of shit Dean is. Well, it's possible. Sam could have told him. The sudden thought of Cas and Sam ever having a real conversation _about Dean_ sends an electric spike of fear down Dean's spine. Luckily, he covers it up by gracelessly stumbling over the curb. Cas leads him back through the alleyway into the employee parking lot, which is really just a stretch of gravel with a handmade sign reading _fucking EMPLOYEES ONLY and that means NOT YOU mikey_. Dean elbows Cas, and points. Cas sighs. "Gabriel," he admits. 

"Is that guy your boss?" Dean asks. Cas gives him another weird look from a growing collection of weird looks. Dean is going to need one of those binders of mug shots to keep track of them all. 

"No." Instead of elaborating, he leads Dean over to a beat-up brown Jeep with dented doors, and unlocks it. Dean grimaces and runs his hand over the crushed hollow on his side, and finds Cas watching him again. "I've been meaning to get that fixed," Cas says, apologetically, like he just offended Dean somehow, talked shit about his grandma or dropped his pants in front of a priest. It's kind of hilarious. Yeah, okay, he gets it, everybody who knows Dean knows Dean straight-up worships his car. But it's not like he holds everyone on earth to the same standard. Not everybody's got a car worth the adoration. Lot of false gods out there on the road, as far as Dean's concerned. "I haven't had the time-"

"No worries," Dean says. "You know, I could take care of this for you." He nods across the windshield at Cas. "It's not that bad. It'd take me a couple of days."

"You don't have to."

"It's kind of what I do," Dean reminds him. "Like I said. No big."

"I'll think about it," Cas says, like he wants to say, _no_. They slide into the seats and Cas starts the engine with a kind of brutal rumbling noise, and for a minute, Dean wonders if he's going to be driving tonight after all. But the Jeep starts okay and Cas pulls them out of the lot into traffic, and Dean relaxes, tapping his fingers on the door handle and watching Cas drive. It's the first time he's seen him behind the wheel, and Dean tries to catalog it, to get every detail, to try and make a little more sense out of him. Cas talks as he drives, points things out to Dean, little landmarks and places Dean didn't even really notice before, having driven the same damn stretch of road a dozen times. His hands move back and forth on the wheel and over the radio dials, but he doesn't look down. Cas drives like he works the coffee machines, Dean realizes, after a few minutes. It seems careless but it isn't; he just knows exactly where everything is in proximity to him, and he doesn't really think about the motions before he makes them. Cas turns them onto a dirt road about five miles outside town, and they rumble over the ruts and gravel, Cas as relaxed and steady as can be, even as rocks fly up and ding the windows. Dean holds onto the bottom of his seat and tries not to listen for the sound of car parts flying off. They pass an orchard and a couple of pole barns, and finally Cas pulls into a flat dirt lot with a little RV trailer at the end of it. He gets out and Dean follows him, crunching in the dirt. The place is cute, in a crooked, dusty kind of way. There are big plastic tubs with dirt in them, lined up along one side of the lot, and a few gangling plants starting to climb up. There's even an old fence further on, covered in ancient grapevines that somebody's obviously started tending again. Cas stands off to the side and watches Dean look around, like he's not rushing him. And Dean is struck by two thoughts at once: one, _holy shit, this must be where Cas lives_. And two, less heartwarming: _if he murdered me out here, nobody would ever know_. "Hey," says Cas, shading his eyes from the fading sunlight. "You want to see the bees?"

"What?" says Dean. 

 

 

Turns out Cas is less of a woodsy serial killer and more of a-

"Honey farmer?" Dean cracks up. "Is that seriously the term?" He snorts and Cas looks at him like he's considering a second career in murder after all. "I mean, you know, bees. Honey. That's cool."

"Without bees to pollinate food-producing plants," Cas says, stiffly, "agricultural output would-"

"Okay," Dean says. He puts his hands up. "Okay, so bees are awesome." Cas relaxes, and offers him a spoon that he's just dipped in a mason jar filled with thick, cloying, cloudy honey. Dean takes it and sucks on it carefully and realizes- "Holy shit," he says, sort of slurring the consonants because his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth. "Man, compared to this, grocery store honey is crap."

"Yes," says Cas. "It is. We use mine at work."

"Wow." Dean licks the spoon dry. "Awesome." Cas starts a fire after that, in a big iron ring sitting on a pile of bricks. Dean helps him pull two chairs over, and then Dean sits next to the warmth of the ring while Cas rummages around in the RV and brings out some sausages and a can of white beans and a bag of spinach and stirs everything into a cast-iron pot. Cas hangs it over the fire and they watch it bubble for a while. "You're like, pretty much a cowboy," Dean says, finally, impressed with basically everything that's happening. It sounded way better in his head, but Cas still beams at him anyway. They eat from real tin plates- actual fucking _cowboy_ , Dean thinks, _far fucking out_ \- and Dean doesn't push the spinach to the side like he would've if Sam made it. He's not trying to impress Sam. But dinner is pretty good, and Cas has some beer stashed in a cooler, and afterwards they sit with their legs propped up by the fire, talking quietly while the moon comes up and the air gets icier and icier outside their little bubble of heat. Finally Dean asks him, "Why do you live out here?" Cas seriously considers the question- Dean is starting to understand that Cas seriously considers everything- and then he folds his hands behind his head and says,

"Because I want to."

"Well, I figured." Dean frowns. "That doesn't really-"

"I was supposed to do something with my life," Cas says, and Dean can hear the air-quotes around _do something_ without Cas even making them. "I think this qualifies," he says, "but not everybody agrees." Dean can hear invisible air-quotes around _everybody_ , too. Well, fuck. Dean knows what it's like to have a guidance counselor- or three- tell you you're fucking up your chances, although chances at what, Dean doesn't know or care. Sometimes Dean feels like the world is going to pass him by one of these days, but this is not one of those moments. Right now, he's full and buzzed and a little sleepy and probably halfway gone on the dude in the lawn chair next to him. He rolls onto his side and looks Cas square in the eyes. Cas looks back; his eyes are dark and flickering with firelight, starlight. His hair's hidden under an ugly knit cap and his face is ruddy from the smoke, and Dean wonders if there is anything more beautiful in the state, in the country, on the planet. 

"Fuck them," Dean says. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not," says Cas.

But Cas lets him sleep in the lumpy RV bed after he's had too much to drink; he flops Dean down onto the mattress and then slides under the blankets alongside him, stripped to a shirt and boxers and- weirdly- orange socks. Dean sighs and curls into his warmth and tries not to think self-conscious thoughts about How Fast This Is Moving and Is It Wrong To Drink Too Much On The Third Date And Have Someone Else Remove Your Jeans In A Nonsexual Fashion. He feels boneless and anchored to this exact spot in the universe, like a tethered balloon. Cas smells like woodsmoke and soap and coffee grinds. Dean wonders if he'll smell like Cas when he wakes up, and that is the single best thought of the week. Of the year. It produces a minor, reactionary erection- like half an erection, really, which is still impressive right now- before Cas pushes him over and smothers him a little with his pillow and says, "Go to sleep, Dean." Dean turns over and obeys. In the morning Cas is wrapped around him, his arms under Dean's elbows and his thigh between Dean's knees, and Dean does indeed smell like Cas.

"I," Dean whispers to himself, awed, "am a winner after all." He is president of a new club, from now on. The Dean Winchester Appreciation Society. The Dean Winchester School For The Gifted. 

He rolls over to kiss Cas awake.

 

 

..


End file.
